Break, Blow, Burn (And Make Me New)
by bironic
Summary: "It was Dustfinger. It had always been Dustfinger." A Dustfinger/Farid fic, because what seemed like slashy subtext in the Inkheart movie ended up being pretty much text in the books. This is a remix of a particular scene about halfway through Inkdeath. Content notes: underage (although not considered so in the Inkworld); arguable infidelity; spoilers for Inkspell & Inkdeath.


Farid reached out with a hand whose trembling could only partly be blamed on the bonds that had just been cut. He needed to touch Dustfinger's face to confirm that he was really here with him in Orpheus' dungeon, yet he was afraid his fingers would pass right through him like the smoke that used to linger after his fire-dancing shows.

His fingertips met flesh, not ghostly mist. Solid cheekbone, prickly stubble, skin hotter than a normal man's thanks to the fire that now seemed to course through Dustfinger's veins. Real. Alive.

Farid launched his aching body forward and threw his arms around him.

The force of his embrace knocked Dustfinger back onto his tailbone and sent Gwin and Jink skittering, but Farid didn't care. Dustfinger was alive. Alive!

"You're back," was all he could manage with his face buried in Dustfinger's neck. He didn't care about the wetness he could feel on his cheeks, either.

"That I am," Dustfinger replied, sounding like he was smiling, and brought his arms around him.

Farid didn't know what to do first, what to say, how to contain the happiness that threatened to burst through his chest. All those months of wretched service to Orpheus, the countless times Oss had bruised Farid and stolen his food, had been worth it for this moment. He wanted to burrow into Dustfinger's body and never come out. He felt hot everywhere they were touching.

And maybe it was more than Dustfinger's fire that made Farid feel like he was lit up from the inside, too. It seemed as if sparks were fizzing under his skin to match the ones dancing in Dustfinger's hair. They were in his hands, in his face, in his belly, in his toes, everywhere, buoyant and itching and restless, as if Farid were the one returning to life, seeking Dustfinger's touch to anchor himself.

He'd wanted Dustfinger back more than anything in the world, and now here he sat; yet the want hadn't gone away. Farid clung to him like the little monkeys that used to climb all over each other back home, but he still couldn't get close enough. Before he really knew what he was doing, he raised his head and pushed his mouth against Dustfinger's.

His head was a whirl, but his body said, _Yes, this._ And suddenly everything fell into place. What had been missing in his feelings for Meggie. His indifference to kissing the kitchen maid. His burning jealousy of Roxane. It was Dustfinger. It had always been Dustfinger. He made a noise and tried to press himself impossibly closer.

"Oh," said Dustfinger when Farid pulled back to take a gasping breath. "Oh, I see." And he laughed.

Just like that, Farid went red, angry and ashamed. He couldn't help how he felt, or that he felt it for Dustfinger. Even though he wanted nothing more than to have Dustfinger's arms around him for the rest of his life, he tried to pull away.

"What—? Oh, Farid, no. That's not it at all. Stop, come here." He took Farid by the arms before he could escape. "I'm not laughing at you, darling. It's only that I've been filled with the strangest sense of joy since I returned."

Farid himself was filled with so many emotions he could hardly tell what they all were. He was still embarrassed, still aroused, still overwhelmed that Dustfinger was back, and on top of that he couldn't help but feel a thrill of pleasure at hearing Dustfinger call him "darling."

When Dustfinger drew him in again, he went.

"Here," he said to Farid, and while his lips hadn't lost their amused curl, his voice was gentle. "Is this what you want?"

He cupped the back of Farid's head and kissed him softly. At the same time, he spread his other hand across the small of Farid's back and pulled him flush against him.

Farid's hips bucked, and a noise came out of his mouth that he hadn't known he could make. His hands flailed as though he'd lost control of them.

Dustfinger broke the kiss. A wave of sparks flickered across his face, his beautiful, unscarred face. More sparks popped on his fingertips when he tucked a lock of hair behind Farid's ear. "Ah, yes, I remember what it was like at your age. Well, I won't tease you."

Dustfinger rose to his knees and folded both arms around him, encouraging him to rock into his hip. Farid forgot the roughness of the stone floor. He forgot the soreness of his mouth from Oss's fist, the pains in his wrists from the ropes. He forgot his embarrassment and his awkwardness. His awareness narrowed to Dustfinger's hands on him, the ache between his legs, the heat inside him and around him.

"Look at you, beautiful boy," Dustfinger murmured.

Farid's heart swelled. He didn't think he could handle any more pleasure. He clutched at Dustfinger's back, dug his teeth into the shoulder strap of Dustfinger's coat, and pushed, and pushed. Heat and breath and sweat and rushing blood. _Alive, alive, alive_.

Dustfinger was whispering into Farid's hair. Distantly, he realized he was talking to the fire. Some of the words Farid knew; others were strange and new. The flames danced around them, between them; they were in Dustfinger and they were in Farid, on his skin, under it, concentrating, growing urgent, uncontrollable.

"Oh," he cried out into Dustfinger's shoulder. Tiny lights like sparks burst before his eyes as his hips snapped one last time and he gave himself up in Dustfinger's arms. "Oh, oh, oh."

Slowly, the heat abated. Farid's breath and heartbeat steadied. Though his grip slackened, he held on as long as Dustfinger allowed. Everything smelled of smoke: a particular, comforting kind of smoke Farid hadn't breathed since that awful day outside the Castle of Night. He felt lax and content as fingers stroked his shoulder blade.

Too soon, Dustfinger sat back on his haunches and held Farid at arm's length. He looked younger without those familiar scars, Farid thought; so different, so much lighter, as if all the fears he'd harbored and all the hurt he'd suffered at Basta's and Capricorn's hands had eased. Had the White Women done that? Had the Bluejay? Or had Dustfinger himself changed while he was away?

"I'm still me," Dustfinger said as if he could read Farid's thoughts, and that ambiguous little smile was the same, all right. "Only less of some things and more of others." He swept damp hair off Farid's face and kissed his forehead. "Shall we?" He pushed to his feet and held out a hand.

Farid took it. His legs wobbled as he stood but quickly recovered. He looked around the cellar: nothing but that stupid pillar where he'd been tied up, and Jink and Gwin chasing each other in the corner. "What now?"

"Now we get out of here before Orpheus and that ogre of a bodyguard discover I'm back and you're loose. And we find you a change of clothes."

"And after that?"

"After that, I have business with the Bluejay."

"And after that?" Farid pressed. "Can I come home with you?"

Dustfinger raised his eyebrows. "What about Meggie?"

Farid shrugged.

"I don't know," Dustfinger said thoughtfully. "I think I might like you to."

Happiness filled his chest again. "Roxane and Brianna wouldn't like it."

"True. Although Brianna spends more time in other people's castles than at Roxane's farm, and Roxane already suspects about you."

Farid looked up at him. How could Roxane have known before he knew himself?

"Once she finally believed me that you aren't my son, she thought it was the next most likely explanation for why you've been playing my shadow ever since you followed me here."

Farid wasn't sure how he felt about that. He still didn't want to share Dustfinger with anybody, especially not now that he finally had him back, and Roxane probably felt the same way. Well, about Farid in particular, anyway.

Seeing Farid's scowl, Dustfinger said lightly, "Let's see if I survive the next few weeks first." At his whistle, Gwin scampered over and climbed up onto his shoulder.

Farid's scowl only deepened. "I won't let them take you again." Jink was climbing his trouser leg. The marten paused to sniff at the wet spot, then perched on his shoulder to match Gwin.

"We may not have a choice."

Before Farid could demand an explanation, footsteps sounded above. Then muffled shouting. Orpheus and Oss must have heard something. Or else it was evening already, and time to visit upon Farid the doom they'd planned.

"Let's go," he said instead. With a whisper, flames twined around one of Dustfinger's arms and licked along his fingers. When he raised it, delicate spider webs of flame spread along the walls to light their way. Farid took his other hand—warm, tangible, not a dream—and followed him up the stairs.


End file.
